


Walk of Shame

by Edwardina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dirty Talk, Het and Slash, M/M, PWP, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-12
Updated: 2007-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:00:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is so totally not the type to kiss and tell. At least, until Dean gets ahold of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk of Shame

**Author's Note:**

> S1-ish fic, operating on the idea that they do swing back through New York so Sam can visit Sarah. This is pretty ridiculously dirty, what can I say; I just wanted to wank over Dean getting off on Sam doing a girl. Thanks to Adelaide for the beta!

Twenty minutes out into the pastoral scenery of any classic American painting, Sam finally said, "Okay, stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Giving me looks! Grinning! It's - creepy."

"Creepy, huh? I'll tell you what's creepy. You, going out with Sarah, staying out all night, and trying to convince me, when I catch you on your walk of shame, that you just fell asleep on the couch. That's creepy."

Shuffling Xerox copies of newspaper clippings in his lap, Sam responded loftily, "Well, I happen to find the apparent trail of death left behind by this cursed Jesus Christ-shaped nightlight creepy. I mean, stigmata and everything? Come on. Like the nightlight isn't cheesy enough on its own. Is it some kind of curse to persecute Christians, or --"

"Yeah-huh," Dean interrupted. "Yeah, see, a cursed nightlight... I find that totally normal. However, the fact that you sleep on the couch when some hot chick clearly wants you to persecute her... that's kinda creepy."

Sam knew the scowl in his voice was apparent. "It's not really any of your business, y'know, whether or not Sarah and I..."

"Did the nasty all night long?" Dean grinned. "You can say it, Sam."

"You --" started Sam. "You are so _immature_."

This insult seemed to have little to no effect.

"So," Dean continued laughingly, "it was so bad you couldn't face her afterwards and slept on the couch 'cause it was all awkward and weird?"

"It was not bad!" Sam flared. Then he bit his lip, sighed out through his nostrils, and sagged, accompanied by his brother's lazy, triumphant chuckles. "Not that it's your business," he repeated, with some dignity.

"The couch," snickered Dean. "You are such a freakin' prude, Sammy."

There was a moment of silence, then, punctuated by the sound of the Impala's tires crunching over some gravel that trailed like an afterthought out of a driveway along the road.

"Well," Sam said slowly, "only the first time was on the couch."

As predicted, Dean pounded the steering wheel with the heel of one hand, probably half in triumph of getting Sam to admit it and half in some kind of sick, perverted pride. His grin was dirty and maniacal, and though a sliver of Sam felt weird about betraying Sarah's privacy, most of him was trying not to let his own smile get too big and crazy.

"Atta- _boy_!"

"Whatever." Sam shook his head, smiling crookedly, as Dean laughed a boisterous and barking laugh.

"How many times?" he added, eyes mischievous, flinty. "You said 'the first time,' so --" 

"I don't know, dude!" Sam laughed evasively. There was something unsure, in him, of telling this kind of thing to Dean. For one thing, respect for what Jessica would have wanted, which wouldn't have been for him to blab about their sex life -- and a similar respect for Sarah. Maybe it was something normal guys, normal brothers, did... telling each other all about their conquests... but he and Dean weren't normal, not at all. By the time Sam had lost his virginity, he'd been in college. Away from Dad, away from Dean, away from this life. He'd never told Dean anything about it, and Dean had never really asked him about it or stuff like this before, either.

But neither of them had much privacy these days. Nothing Sam had become accustomed to having as sacred -- like showers and bathroom time _alone_ \-- was treated as such on the road. He didn't even jerk off alone anymore. Even that had become part of this whole family conquest thing.

"Uh-huh," said Dean sagely. "Went on all night, didn't it?"

Sam bit his lip again.

"Screwed her all over, I bet," Dean continued, not seeming at all aware that Sam didn't want to share details. "I remember the first time I did a chick on the couch. It was one of those that had silk or somethin' in the upholstery, but it was all old and faded... an' her legs were hangin' off, so I grabbed 'em, shoved 'em up against her tits, an' nailed her hard. Only I was fallin' off that damn thing every ten seconds! Just barely on it, by my knees, so I don't know what was so damn good about it, but the way that girl was screamin'..."

He shook his head, seeming bemused.

"You must have been hitting her g-spot," Sam said, clutching at his knees awkwardly.

Dean gave him a look. "Sam, there's no such thing."

For a moment, all Sam could do was give an incredulous sort of laugh.

"Ye-aaah, there is."

"Nah, man. Ghosts: real. Vampires: real. The g-spot? Myth."

"Ahh, no, it's real, believe me," coughed Sam, earning an eye-roll from Dean. He shook his head in disbelief. "Well, if you'd have been with Sarah last night, you'd believe in it, too."

Dean had the nerve to look skeptical.

"It's in the front," Sam explained, gesturing with his index finger. "The front of the vaginal walls. So the best way to find it is from behind."

"Please tell me you aren't reciting this from some kinda sex-ed textbook," Dean said.

"I used my mouth for a while," blurted Sam, "then I turned her around and bent her over the arm of the couch. Which was very nice, by the way. Black leather."

"Huh. Black leather," echoed Dean casually. "Bet that's a bitch to get comestains off of."

"Well, I didn't come on it," he snapped. "But she did. Repeatedly."

After a slightly awkward minute, Dean glanced at him with a smirk and a perked eyebrow, as if daring him to continue with his clearly bullshit story. Sam stared back flatly. Then he leaned over, crushing one of the clipping copies, and spoke right into Dean's ear.

"I counted three times, but I've never fucked her before, so it could've been more, I don't know." Dean stared out at the road. "Then her legs - they were starting to shake, so I pulled out... the condom was all shining wet. Slippery. When she laid down on the couch, I could see her pubes... dripping." Now he could see Dean's knuckles growing white as he gripped the steering wheel. "I went," he continued through his teeth, "and got on top of her, and she put me in her again, and I fucked her. With my pants around my ankles still. I fucked her till I came. Inside her. In the rubber."

Then, just as deliberately as before, Sam leaned back and shuffled his research back into order.

What seemed like an hour of white noise filled the car. The pistoning of the engine. The clinking of Dean's keys as they ran over bumps and dips in the road. The two of them breathing in the small space.

Dean finally cleared his throat and said, voice thick, "And... that was the first time?"

"Mm-hm."

"She suck your dick?" asked Dean challengingly.

Sarah had, later, in her bed; it was the second time Sam had come. And she --

"She has this mirror," Sam said, "antique, I guess... hanging over her dresser on the wall next to her bed. Right there. So I watched her in it."

"Yeah? Watched her what, put on a mumu?"

Wishing he had a coffee or Coke or something, Sam gulped. "Watched her suck my dick."

"She spit, or swallow?" asked Dean crudely. Shifting with discomfort, Sam met his eye for a split second. "Or," he added, with that weird certainty he always had, "did you lose it all over her face?"

Abruptly, Dean jerked at the wheel, pulling them off the road and into some blown-over grass.

"What--?" began Sam, but Dean interrupted him, unbuckling his heavy old seatbelt.

"Nah, I know," he breathed, pushing up his hips and thrusting a hand under his t-shirt to unbutton his jeans. "She tried to swallow, but I've seen you blow your wad. It gets everywhere --" Sam's neck flushed over, sunburn-hot, and he watched, as though stunned, as Dean tugged his zip down, fast, with a noisy _bzzrrt_. "So it dripped down her neck. Her tits. It got in her hair, all over her face. And you..." Dean's breath was unreal in its realness, wet and warm and on his face as he whispered, "You pulled 'er up to you an' you kissed 'er."

Dean was straddling him, now, straddling him with the ease of someone who had pined for a Harley for years as a teenager, and his hands were undoing Sam's jeans. Where had the pages of clippings gone? Dean's hoarse words, his breaths, were stinging his cheeks.

"You stuck your tongue in her mouth, didn't you. Tasted your own jizz in her mouth."

Sam moaned, a hard and horrified moan. He'd done nothing like that -- not immediately, anyway, though he'd kissed her later and she'd tasted bitter, still. He felt his Docs sliding over the ridges of the floor mat beneath them as he dug in and twisted his body in protest, but Dean was pinning him in place, and there wasn't much room to move.

"And you fucked her again later," Dean said savagely, and Sam didn't know whether he was angry or proud or just -- turned on --

"Yeah," he gasped, and as Dean's forehead touched against his, he couldn't help himself, and shoved his hand into the space between them, into his opened jeans, and grabbed his cock. It was stiff and full and he'd had no idea how hard he was, or when he'd gotten so hard.

"Let me guess. This morning. You woke up with her in her bed and you did her one more time, under her own fucking blankets, all slow and loving --"

"Dean," wheezed Sam, humiliated, and aching at the idea, feeling and smelling the down blanket he and Sarah had slept under... imagining touching her underneath it...

"Maybe you did it like a married couple, huh?" asked Dean, not seeming to care if it was the truth or not. It was only then that Sam noticed he had his hand in his own jeans, slowly and torturously yanking at his prick. Sam's eyes crossed, then, and his head fell back against the seat.

"No," he gritted out, shutting out the daylight and the sight of Dean's hand moving in his jeans, "no -- she was -- on top of me --"

"She was riding you, Sammy? Riding your cock?"

Somehow, for some reason, Sam felt like his insides were all crumpling up and burning. The smell of Dean's Colgate and the bear claw he'd had for breakfast was making Sam want to taste him, kiss him -- and his mouth was right there; he could feel it moving, hissing at him.

"Was her pussy tight?"

"God!" cried Sam -- or something like that, only it was formless, ragged.

He felt his mouth brush softly along Dean's, clinging just for a second, and then he was biting down on his own lower lip, punishingly, and coming -- just as Dean had said -- all over the place. His hip, his underwear, his jeans, the edge of his t-shirt. He pumped helplessly until they were all soaked, and Dean growled something at him, because Sam had shot off on his arm, too.

A loud slapping noise cut through the roar of blood in his ears, and Sam distantly realized it was the sound of Dean grabbing the seat right by his head -- grabbing onto it in desperation. The sudden knowledge that Dean was going to come burnt into Sam's brain, devouring it until nothing was left but the desire for it.

He cracked his eyes open and focused again on Dean's hand, then at his lips, full and parted and --

Their foreheads smashed together again, and Dean gasped, "You fucked her."

Sam was nodding; his cock was twitching, still, flinching pathetically in his sticky, slimy grasp. "I fucked her," he whispered back, and sucked in a gasp as Dean buckled and came, breaths a distant roar in Sam's ear.

Somehow it wasn't at all like when Sam had come, fucking Sarah and thinking of Jess. It wasn't at all the slow burn, half-unreal experience that having sex with Sarah had been.

This was --

He couldn't breathe.

Dean was sliding off of him, collapsing back into the driver's seat and shaking off a glistening hand, reaching for napkins from breakfast.

But Sam still couldn't breathe.

"Man, Sam," said Dean, laughing and flashing his glint of a grin even as he was shoving a napkin into his jeans and mopping himself up.

"Wh..." managed Sam in a stunted breath. He couldn't seem to move, though his jeans were still split wide open and his t-shirt -- he'd have to change --

"You're a damn pervert," Dean declared. Sam watched him stuff the wet napkin into the McDonald's bag doubling as a trash-bag, still breathing hard.

"And you're not," he wheezed sarcastically. "Hope perving out over me and Sarah didn't keep you up all night or something -- _don't_ say anything. I know."

Dean merely grinned and handed him a napkin, and Sam sighed, took it, and and shook his head, knowing that nothing was going to get done about the cursed Jesus nightlights that day anyway.

"Anyway," Dean said, "I was just kidding about the whole g-spot thing."


End file.
